The Perfect Match 15+ (Completed)

Summary: Niall Horan is the epitome of bad news. After his mother passes away, he finds himself in the battle with drugs and alcohol. With jeopardy of not graduating his senior year, his teacher Ms. Aleman pairs him with tutor Aubrey Osborn, daughter of a man who may know Niall a bit too well. Ms. Aleman thinks Aubrey and Niall are the perfect match, but their histories beg to differ. On top of it, Aubrey is applying to the most competitive schools in the nation, while Niall could care less about a higher education. Two teenagers. Two hearts. Two stories. Will it be the perfect match?

i'm not responsible for the bad language & sexual scenes. it's left upon yourself to read this fan-fic. your choice, not mine. (:
This Isn't My Fanfic >.<
Here Is The Authors Tumblr Page Link :
I Just Really Liked The Story (:


1. Chapter One (:


Niall’s P.O.V.

My mother passed away two years ago, and my father abandoned my brother and me when we were toddlers. Occasionally, I wonder why, but I realize I do not give a fuck. In fact, after my freshman year of high school, I stopped giving a fuck about a lot. Three years later, I care about three things: my car Betty, my money, and the little girl I babysit next door, Baby Lux. I know, I seemed really cool until the last bit, huh? Well, babysitting Baby Lux means money, and money means a bit of weed. Not that I smoke much, but it helps ease the pain for a while. I live with my brother Greg, and after my mother passed away, he bosses me around a bit, but do I let him? Well, I sort of have to because he pays the bills of the house. I used to stay with my friend Zayn in his apartment, but his girlfriend Perrie moved in, and I hurriedly became a third wheel.

“Mr. Horan,” a voice wavers and interrupts my thoughts. My eyes raise, and I see Ms. Aleman with a chemistry book in her hands. Ms. Aleman is about the age of my mother, but has the personality of a sixty year-old drama professor. She tosses her scarf over her shoulder and clears her throat. “Could you spare me the definition of an isotope?”

Hell, how do I know? I never know. For the past few years, I copied answers to pass, but Ms. Aleman is no joke. She takes her job very seriously unlike the other teachers of Meadowview High. Since Greg used to be her favorite student in high school, I have expectations to meet, but is it my fault people set those expectations?

“Well, Ms. Aleman,” I stall with feigned confidence, “an isotope is a very complex matter. However, by simple definition, an isotope is—” The bell rings, and I hurriedly shove my journal into my brown backpack.

“Saved by the bell,” Ms. Aleman muses, “very well, Horan, but unfortunately for you, I demand you visit me during your lunch hour. Come, or you will be rewarded mandatory detention. Do you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am,” I say to shut her up.

I toss my backpack on and hurry out of the classroom to Zayn for the money he owes me. As I leave the classroom, I text him to recount his cash in case he forgets a penny. Money is money, right? I maneuver through the crowd and find Zayn near his locker.

“Hey,” I say with our usual handshake, “you have my money?”

Zayn hands me a wad of cash in return for the weed I let him borrow not too long ago. I want to count it, but I trust him. In fact, he is probably my only friend within the whole city. A lot of people hated me once I stopped giving a fuck. I used to be on the honor roll. I used to be captain of the swimming team. I used to have a reason to try, but once my mother passed away, not anymore.

“Listen, Perrie and I are having a party this Saturday,” Zayn says, “are you in? A couple of her friends are coming, too.”

“Who?” I ask in hope of hearing Jade Thirwall, cheerleader captain, will be there. I’m not going to lie, Jade is sexy, and we made out a few times, but it never got serious. I never had time for serious.

Zayn opens his mouth to answer, but a police officer marches toward us and removes his shades. He has buggy green eyes, but I avoid looking into them.

“Do you lads not have class now?” he asks. Zayn mumbles a yes sir and disperses to his class. The police officer continues to stare, and I suddenly lose my bad boy persona. He knows me well enough to know I am weaker than I appear. He measures me with his eyes, and to him, I am no one. “Horan,” he bellows, “how was juvie this summer?”

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